Legends of Fae'Gir

ISHTA
Race:	Elf
Age:	?
Height:	167cm
Faction:	Free Kingdoms
Ocupation:	Mage
Connections:	Wild Roses

Ishta

The lands of Dark Zenith were unforgiving, and for some, cruelty began not with monsters, but with the hands of men. Deep in the woods, where the sun didn’t reach and the Triad’s reach thinned into lawless stretches, slavers thrived like maggots in rot. Among them, an elf child with brown eyes and fire beneath her skin was taken and broken, again and again, until she almost forgot her name.

Ishta was not born into chains, she wore them for most of her life. Her hair, once long, had been hacked short by indifferent hands, a symbol of control more than necessity. The slave camp was her entire world for years. Obedience was survival. Silence was safer than defiance. And yet, when she was alone, away from the eyes of the guards and the cruelty of masters, she would stare at her hands and wonder why the fire didn’t consume her entirely.

It was on a moonless night that the Wild Roses struck. Fire met fire when their blades and magic tore through the camp’s walls, and Ishta, whose magic-damping collar finally broke, unleashed her flame for the first time, not in fear, but in defiance. A stable ignited. A guard screamed. She didn’t stop. And when the chaos quieted, Zeph stood before her, cloaked in ash and blood, his expression unreadable but his hand outstretched.

He offered her a place and she accepted, not for the cause, but because she had never been offered anything before.

Now, free among the Wild Roses, Ishta walks unshackled but never untouched by her past. She speaks little, trusts slowly, and reacts violently if someone dares to lay a hand on her without permission. Her trauma clings to her like smoke, and while the fire she wields is a weapon, it is also a wall. To many, she is a danger barely leashed, often rushing headfirst into battle when slavers are involved, her judgment clouded by rage. She must be reminded, sometimes pulled back, lest her vengeance consume her as wholly as her captors once tried to.

But for the few she allows close, there is another side. With them, Ishta can laugh, albeit softly. She shares the warmth of her fire without fear, sits by the campfire without keeping her back to a wall, and sometimes, when she forgets herself, even sleeps without waking at every sound.

She has no grand ideals of justice, no speeches about freedom or honour. What drives her is simple: vengeance, survival, and the quiet, burning hope that no one else will suffer as she did.